Of Silver Bees
by WhiteRookBlackBishop
Summary: There are two men in 221B. One is a wizard, the other is not. This is a story of how one man discovers the other. The question is, who is really making the discoveries?
1. Obliviate

Opening

**3:20 a.m.**

_The two inhabitants of 221B were only just settling into bed. Despite this, both were still squirming with energy left unspent. The tallest had their limbs tangled with their partner's, practically soldering them to the bed. Their partner didn't seem to mind._

_"Are you sure you don't mind?" one asked the second. The second only hummed and clicked their tongue before forming an answer._

_"I still love you, no matter what you are," they murmured. "Of course I don't mind. I think you are amazing."_

_The first seemed satisfied and kissed them goodnight, snuggling close and closing their eyes. The second followed their example, and soon a soft peace settled in the flat._

_Slowly, the first opened their eyes and pried away from the second. He pressed his lips against his partner's forehead and took a shuddering breath. Holding out an object- a long, wooden wand with an intricately-designed handle- he took one last despairing look at his partner._

_"_Obliviate._"_

* * *

><p>"Hurry, John, the trail will go cold- have you been listening at all to me?" Sherlock demanded, running about the room looking for God-knows-what. John stumbled out of Sherlock's room sleepily. He'd slept for a long while. Longer than normal.<p>

Sherlock paused in the middle of his search to stare at John. He seemed to be watching him for something with that unnerving gaze of his.

John felt slightly uncomfortable under his best friend's stare and fidgeted. "What?"

"Nothing… Nothing, doesn't matter," Sherlock hummed. He ran out the door, leaving the poor doctor dazed and confused in the kitchen.

* * *

><p>A man was walking home alone when he noted the fogginess of the streets. His partner had gone home without him again. Unwilling to deal with any unpredictable accidents in the dense fog, he took the Tube home instead. It should have been the emptiness of the underground that first tipped him off that something definitely wasn't right. As the train departed, a feeling of cold dread washed over him.<p>

The man let out a small gasp, his head light and heavy. He didn't feel too well. As his head lolled to the side, he noticed that something was very not good in his compartment.

The fog from outside seemed to leak into the train from the outside. The temperature seemed to drop. He let out a small whimper and forced himself out of his seat and out the door the moment they opened at Baker Street station. He cried out for help, but the station was deserted. The train left without him, and the station was silent.

But it wasn't peaceful. The man struggled to stand but fell again. He gasped, crawling for the stairs. He cried out again, his shouts reaching deaf ears. He pawed at the tile floor.

The feeling of dread intensified, and he turned to lie on his back, defeated. He felt drunk and useless, lying to accept his fate. What he hadn't accounted for was the dense fog to overwhelm him, and the feeling that something was tugging sharply at his very soul.

Memories resurfaced in his mind. This was no flashback of his entire life, however. No, these were terrible memories. He whimpered.

Gunshots. People shouting. Getting beaten up. Finally, the last memory seemed to force its way into his mind.

_I'm standing over a grave. I can read the familiar name: Sherlock Holmes. I know that the man I gave my heart to will be gone to me forever. Forgive me… I'm so sorry, I never meant to fail you like I did… I'm so sorry, wait for me, please-_

The memory seemed to fade, like everything else. The man let out a final sigh, and the tugging feeling intensified until he felt an internal pop, and a glowing light pierced his vision.

And then the feeling of dread disappeared. He was hollow. He didn't feel a thing. The body that lay spiritually broken on the floor took a shuddering breath, staring at nothing at all.

A loud crack interrupted the deafening silence. A voice shouted something unintelligible. Lights began to fill the room in pulses. The small glowing light that had appeared first began to fade back into the man's body. He took a gasping breath and coughed, the feeling of dread returning but fading all at once. He felt like he was about to vomit.

He could hear the new voice call out his name, but he didn't listen. His body felt too light. He closed his eyes.

But not before he noticed the small little bee made of light wandering on the tile by his face.

_**End of Opening**_

**Author's note: I should mention that italicized scenes in the beginning or end of the chapters are indefinite moments in the story's timeline. They could have happened in the past or the future, but will eventually be explained in further chapters.**

**For all those confused, I will explain myself:**

_This opening is meant to be vague. Very, VERY vague. The rest of the story will be in detail, I promise._

_During this chapter, I attempted to write in the Muggle's point of view. The fog is a Dementor, and the bee is a Patronus (there are a swarm of bees surrounding the victim; he only saw the one). The cracking sound is a wizard Apparating into the station to protect the victim._

_If you are confused why I didn't blatantly describe the Dementor, it is because in the books, Muggles aren't supposed to be able to see them. They notice the fog and feel dread, but like most magical creatures, they cannot see the creature itself._

_The Dementor had almost succeeded in a Dementor's Kiss. The victim's soul was literally sucked out of their body before their savior arrived._

_I apologize for the confusion._


	2. Rennervate

**12:00 p.m.**

_John had the day off, and decided it would be better spent cleaning the chaos of the flat than mucking around watching the telly. He exhaled sharply as he pulled the desk away from the wall for a brief few minutes of sweeping, and froze when a small wooden clatter interrupted the peace._

_The doctor knelt down and lifted what seemed to be a polished stick. It could have been a baton, though he knew better. Batons were almost never this short or thick. This was a well-cared for stick. He traced the base of it, where a senseless map had been carefully carved into the wood and worn in areas of use._

_"What is this doing on the floor?" he wondered aloud. He stood up and turned to set it on the mantle, hidden slightly behind the skull. He would have a talk with Sherlock later about leaving valuables on the ground._

* * *

><p>Sherlock roused from his sleep at the ungodly hour of one in the afternoon. John was in the kitchen making tea, if the clatter of cups had been anything to go by. He groaned and sat up, regretting it immediately. His head swam and throbbed.<p>

"Awake?" John poked his head in. The smell of black tea wafted in through the open door, and the doctor walked in with the drink on a tray. Sherlock took his without any acknowledgement for who provided it, and drank it all in one swig.

"My head is pounding, John, what did I do?" he asked warily. If he had gotten drunk again…

"Er, I believe we went home together, drank some tea, and I went to bed before you did," John supplied. He shrugged. "If you did anything odd, I doubt it was anything spectacularly stupid, though I've thought that way before and was sorely mistaken."

Sherlock groaned and lay back in bed, finding little comfort in the cooling pillow. He rubbed his eyes.

"Bees," he mumbled, and fell asleep immediately afterward. John stared at him in disbelief before walking back out of the room to start his day.

Two hours later, Sherlock woke again. To his relief his headache had gone. Unfortunately, so had John. He sighed and got out of bed.

"John Watson…" he hummed, treading into the living room. He lifted a hand to pick up his sudoku cube when he froze.

A decorated stick lay carelessly on the desk. He abandoned the cube in favor of the treasure, lifting it carefully. It felt like it was humming with pent up energy. Sherlock held it close to his face, inspecting it for dents.

Holly. Around twenty-eight centimeters. Well-cared for, despite its careless placing. What amused the detective, however, was the little treasure map carved in the handle of the wood. It didn't look like it went anywhere. He would have to ask John why this stick was lying on the desk where it risked breaking, and he set it on the mantle behind the skull.

* * *

><p><strong>Hogwarts, year 3<strong>

He was afraid. The entire Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw class felt as afraid as he did. Even the teacher seemed on edge. The entity in the enchanted cage just floated there, staring down at them with lack of eyes.

"Now, remember the spell," the professor told them gently. "Think of the happiest memory you have, and then say, 'Expecto Patronum'. Repeat after me: 'Expecto Patronum'."

"Expecto Patronum," the class chorused. Their professor shook his head.

"With feeling, everyone! Expecto Patronum!"

"_Expecto Patronum!_" the class shouted in unison. The professor nodded in approval.

"Now, ten points to every student that can produce a Patronus in the duration of this lesson. And don't worry, that Dementor will not leave his cage."

The students all scattered about the room to practice. A whole cacophony of Patronus spells filled the room. After a few minutes, the first full-bodied Patronus slithered from a startled Hufflepuff girl's wand. The professor laughed and rewarded ten points to her class as a Ravenclaw shrieked at the rattlesnake.

Two minutes after the snake incident, a silver rat climbed onto a Ravenclaw boy's shoulder and peered around the room. Another minute, and a peacock took flight above their heads, much to the pleasure of another Ravenclaw.

The boy felt frustrated. All he'd been able to produce was smoke. He stopped chanting and stood, closing his eyes. He needed a happy memory. Happy…

"_Expecto Patronum_!" he cried.

For a brief second, his heart sank as he believed nothing would happen. And then…

A swarm of bees poured from his wand and flew about the room. He stood, frozen in place. Bees?

These bees, contrary to belief, did not remain in a clustered swarm. No, they had a mind of their own, as separate entities. A few remained flying around the room. Several landed and wandered on different desks. A few landed on the wall. One was in a shrieking Hufflepuff girl's hair, and a Ravenclaw was trying to shake off the one that landed on his trousers.

"A truly effective means of protection," the professor noted, and the bees vanished. "Now, should I award ten points for your success, or ten points for every Patronus body you've just conjured..?"

The answer seemed unanimous. The boy only stood there, still confused.

**Year 6**

The need for a Patronus never came up until three years later. As punishment for a rather terrific prank pulled by the boy's Gryffindor and Slytherin acquaintances, Headmaster McGonagall assigned them to Professor Hagrid for the cleanup and care of creatures in the Forbidden Forest. The only person the least fazed by their punishment was the boy.

Although Hagrid attempted to find a safe route for them to travel, the Forest was still fraught with danger. This did not exclude a Dementor, which had drifted straight into their path.

The boy's two partners, two Slytherins, scrambled for their wands to assist him. The boy remained frozen in place as the dread and fear overwhelmed him. Behind him, a Patronus mockingbird dissipated out of its owner's fear.

"Get out your wand!" a Slytherin begged him, gripping the fainting form of his girlfriend. The Dementor slowly moved away from her and toward the boy. He finally snapped out of his senses.

"_Expecto Patronum_!" he shouted. The bees swarmed the Forest. The Slytherin boy stared breathlessly as two rested on his girlfriend's stomach to protect them both. Several landed on the trees and many chased the Dementor away. The boy stood in disbelief, watching the Dementor flee. He turned and grinned at his partners, before kneeling to wake the girl up.

**End of Chapter 1**

**_Author's note: I promised the chapter would be less vague, and I meant to make it less vague, I really did... I just didn't want to give anything away until the next chapter. But hopefully you have some information about our wizard._  
><strong>

**_The wand I described is made of holly, 11 inches (22.94 centimeters, exactly), and has a core of phoenix feather. As I likely won't have our wizard describe it (it's not necessary to tell a Muggle what your wand is really made of), I should tell you that now. Our wizard is also in either Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw. I chose these two classes because John and Sherlock both could have gotten into either of them._**

**_As previously mentioned, the wizard's Patronus is a swarm of bees. Probably enough to form a hive. They all have a will of their own and act like a single Patronus would and wander where they will._**

**_Until next time!_**


	3. Incendio

**Author's note: I don't normally write an AN in the beginning of a chapter, but I believe this was well deserved. I hadn't thought my story would become so popular, and in fact I wasn't expecting people to read it at all. I have read and reread all of the reviews and PMs I have gotten. They all made me so happy!**

**For all of you who have truly impressed me with your deductions, for "Person", "Fai's smile", "Silverdragonstar", "Nataly SkyPot", "cethmistmyk", "Guest", and for "Old Ping Hai", this chapter is for you.**

* * *

><p>The young age of ten had been a turning point in our hero's life. You see, when he turned ten, he began to discover he could do things. Special things that no other child his age seemed to do.<p>

His family thought it was odd, and told him to keep his talents hidden. But, like your average ten-year-old, he did not listen and instead played with it when mummy and daddy were away.

The little boy sat alone in the grass outside his neighborhood. Three children approached him. The boy noticed that they were his new neighbors, having only moved in the day previously, and were the only children outside of himself in the entire neighborhood.

"Hullo, I'm Thomas and I play hopscotch," a blond boy with a lisp introduced himself.

"I'm Reggie. I can draw really good," said a dark-haired boy.

"And I'm Sophie. I can do a cartwheel, want to see?" the little girl said shyly. Before the boy could answer, the girl ran off and did a complete cartwheel, landing neatly in the grass. The boy smiled and stood up.

"Want to see what I can do?" the boy asked. The other children nodded excitedly.

The grass started to tremble. They quivered. They shook. And then, they snapped, swirling in the wind. The children gasped, startled. And then they screamed when the grass blades turned into little green spiders, crawling up the strange boy's legs..

"What are you, some sort of freak?" Thomas spat, dragging Sophie away. Reggie backed away before turning to run, the other two on his heels.

The little boy sat alone in the grass outside his neighborhood, the spiders quivering and collapsing into a pile of grass again. The children never approached him to play again.

* * *

><p><strong>11:20 p.m.<strong>

"John! I've got it! The killer wasn't Mr. Shaprey, it was-" Sherlock jumped out of his chair and whirled around to face John- or where he was not five minutes ago. He deflated and stared at the chair.

Mrs. Hudson rapped at the door. "Hoo-hoo! Sherlock dear, a client was just outside, you should really replace the doorbell."

"Mrs. Hudson, did John step out?" Sherlock asked her. The old woman frowned and pressed a knuckle to her lips in thought.

"I'm sure I would have seen him if he did, I was only outside my flat to answer the door. Poor woman, dreadful business with her husband," she told him. "I'd been out there about seven minutes. Perhaps John stepped out before then?"

"I'd been talking to him five minutes ago. I'll look for him upstairs, perhaps he walked out on me again," Sherlock sighed. "Good evening, Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh, the mess you've made," the landlady tutted as she descended back down the stairs.

Sherlock skipped every other step up to John's old room and peered inside. The bed was empty and made, almost absolutely perfect. Nobody was inside. He trudged back down and into the sitting room.

"Forget something?"

Sherlock jumped and looked up. John blinked and smiled at him pleasantly from his chair. Sherlock turned to look at the stairs and back at his flatmate.

"Sorry, I, um…" the detective was at a complete loss.

"You were still talking when I went down to buy more milk," John told him. He stood up and patted Sherlock's shoulder. "It's late. I'm going to get dressed and go to bed. You joining me?"

"Yes- Yeah, just in a second…" Sherlock stared at him. "Except…"

John stopped walking and turned, raising a brow. Sherlock approached him and pulled him into a hug, burying his face in John's neck. John paused, but returned the hug willingly.

At least, he would have, if Sherlock hadn't snapped away not a second later.

"You didn't go to buy more milk, John. Where would you have gone? Tesco closes at eleven. Your body temperature is still warm, so you couldn't have been out longer than a few seconds. Not to mention, we have a chain smoker currently residing outside on the stairs next door. You would smell like tobacco ash the moment you returned. Mrs. Hudson hadn't heard you leave in the seven minutes she stood talking to a client."

John blinked, an expression akin to a deer in headlights. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Sherlock stepped back.

"You're hiding something from me."

John still said nothing. Sherlock looked away, and John faltered.

"Sherlock, I promise, it's not anything you should concern yourself with," John told him. "I have a habit of disappearing now and then. But I'm not hiding anything from you to spite you. It's for your own good, okay?"

"How would I know?" Sherlock asked, walking to his room. The door clicked shut and locked. John approached the door and lifted a hand to knock, but lowered it. It was useless. He turned back and walked toward the fireplace.

Inside, Sherlock curled into a ball and listened as John walked away. He failed to notice John returning, which would be the reason why he was startled when he heard John's voice just outside the door again.

"_Alohamora_."

* * *

><p><span><strong>end of chapter<strong>

**Author's note: I'm sorry that my updates seem random. I've been attempting to balance school, real life, and my writing, but it doesn't seem to be working.**

**I am completely honest when I say that your deductions blew me away. I as a writer felt very proud to have such observant readers. Many of you pointed out a few details and quirks I added in subconsciously, such as Sherlock clicking his tongue.**

**Apologies for the short chapter. I promise that I will send a big fat one soon.**


	4. Expelliarmus

**12:08 p.m.**

John spent a good ten minutes kissing his partner stupid, and another few to explain to him in detail about his talents. Sherlock seemed skeptical until John had whispered '_Lumos_' and the tip of the stick- a wand, he now realized- lit like a small flame.

"Impossible, simply impossible," Sherlock breathed. John gave him a small, nervous smile.

"It's not impossible," John told him. "I'm right here, aren't I..?"

"But this… How?" the detective looked at him with such an innocent, wonder-filled look that John rarely ever saw. John wanted to kiss him again for it. Badly.

"I don't know how. I was born with it, I suppose. I got a letter in the mail one morning, delivered by an owl. It was sealed with wax, like from an old movie. Inside, it explained to my parents that I was gifted and that I would be attending a school that let me control my abilities," John said, lowering his gaze to the wand. The tip's glow, the only source of light in the room, seemed to flicker in response to his thoughts. "I attended, graduated, and hid. I only use my magic for special occasions."

"How did I not see-?"

"How did you not see that your flatmate can disappear and reappear within seconds? Conjure the milk so quickly? Enters the loo and comes out perfectly shaven within two minutes? Sherlock, you're naturally absent-minded to the world around you. You delete things from your memory. I use this to my advantage," John told him. "You're the perfect disguise."

Sherlock's expression crumbled at the label. "Is that all I was?"

"What? No, heavens no," John shook his head quickly. "No, it was just a bonus. I just liked you, you insane sod."

Sherlock still did not relax until John leaned in to kiss him. All worries seemed to melt now, and he kissed back. John smiled slightly.

"Are you sure you don't mind?" he asked, expecting the same answer and the thrill of deja vu.

"That depends," Sherlock answered, startling the doctor. John looked up at him warily. "How many times have you asked me this question?"

* * *

><p><strong>Two Years Ago<strong>

"John, we have a case, get dressed-" Sherlock had burst into the room unannounced, just as three paperbacks dropped from their midair flight from John's desk to his bookshelf. The owner of said books, who was currently dusting his bedside table, stood frozen in his position. John watched him with startled bug eyes as Sherlock looked around him in bewilderment.

The laptop on the desk was typing itself, writing a blog entry about Sherlock's last case. A pen swirled on paper, writing a letter to one of John's army friends who had moved to Berlin. An extra rag was dusting away at John's wardrobe. And the doctor was standing too far away for anyone to consider that he was even remotely touching any of these moving things.

"Sherlock, I can explain."

* * *

><p><strong>One Month Later<strong>

John was more careful about using magic in 221B. It took three times longer to finish his chores, but it was for the better. He didn't want to have his mad flatmate walk in on him riding his broom to dust the hard-to-reach shelves or the tops of the doorways or using magic to press his clothes minutes before he left for work. What he hadn't accounted for, however, was his use of magic outside of the flat.

They were on a case; Sherlock had chosen one that led to a group of suicide bombers. John had his wand in his coat pocket for emergencies.

"I promise you your freedom, Stanley," Sherlock's voice rumbled in the empty room. "if you put the trigger down and tell me the names of your colleagues."

Where were they again? Oh, yes, that's right, in an unoccupied room of Parliament, trying to talk down a semi-reluctant bomber from detonating the bomb strapped to his stomach. John stood with his hands in the air, a pose identical to Sherlock's, assessing the would-be terrorist's next move. He needed the man to turn around…

"What makes you think I'll do that, Mr. Holmes? I know how the justice system works. You promise me freedom, aye? Does that entail the detainment I'll get during the trials? Protection from the threats I'll be under if I agree? It's too late, Mr. Holmes. I'm sorry you ended up here at the wrong time," the bomber said with a shaking voice. He thumbed the button that would send them up in flames. Turn around…

Stanley closed his eyes and tilted his head back, letting the sensation of false peace wash over him in his last moments. John lowered his hands and pulled his wand out quickly.

"Vatican cameos," he shouted, "_Petrificus Totalis_!"

Stanley hardly had an opportunity to look before he went rigid, falling to the floor like a statue. John eased the trigger from his hand and set it on the table. Sherlock rose off the ground where he'd flung himself and stared at the bomber.

"What happened, what did you do?" Sherlock demanded. John looked up at him with fear in his eyes.

* * *

><p><strong>One Month Ago<strong>

"John, why is there an owl carrying a moving picture on our windowsill?"

"..._shit_."

* * *

><p><strong>Present<strong>

"Fourteen times," John answered gravely. "You found out fourteen times."

"And you've deleted my memories of these thirteen times?" Sherlock asked. John buried his face in his shoulder and nodded. "Did I not accept you..?"

"No," John whispered. "You loved me even more."

"I don't… understand," Sherlock admitted. John eased away, looking at his hands as he spoke.

"Every time you found out, you would tell me that you still loved me- the first few times you just said we were still friends, we weren't a couple yet." John smiled, but sobered quickly. "But you seemed… odd. It was like my magic was a tool for you. Soon, it was no longer 'John, we have a case' and more 'Bring your wand, we have a case', or 'Is there a spell that can make everyone shut up?'. It hurt more when we got together, because I figured you loved my magic more than me."  
>"John, no-"<p>

"Let me finish. I erased your memory the first few times weeks after you discovered it. Somewhere along the line, I had decided that I would save myself the pain and do it when you slept," John finished. "Every time, you would tell me that you loved me no matter what I was. It was reassuring. I would rather it end like that than remain invisible to you until you're forced to remember I exist."

Sherlock kissed him then, effectively cutting him off and forcing him to quiet. John made a muffled sound of protest, though not a second later he melted into him. Sherlock pulled back to breathe, but he continued to pepper kisses along John's face.

"John Watson, you are more than your talents," he told him forcefully. "I fell in love with an army doctor that was mad enough to follow me on a murder case the same day we looked at this flat together. I was not aware you were a wizard then, and finding out now changes nothing. Understand?"

John said nothing, but nodded anyway.

"Do you know anything of silver bees?" Sherlock blurted, incapable of stopping himself. John's eyebrows rose.

"Yes, in fact I do," he answered. "They're my Patronus. How did you know..?"

"I... I didn't," Sherlock's brow furrowed. "It's like a dream, I think. What's a Patronus?"

"It's a spell. Specifically, a protective spell that wards away a creature called a Dementor," John explained. "Dementors are creatures that suck away at your very soul and fill you with unimaginable sadness. A Patronus is said to be a metaphysical representation of your soul. Mine is… bees."

"Did you ever save me? From a Dementor?"

"Yes. Once. We had a row and I went home. I saw the fog and you wouldn't answer your phone, so I looked for you," John looked at his hands again. "I could feel the dread. I could feel the fear pouring off of you in waves. I saw your soul."

He looked up at Sherlock with haunted eyes. "A Dementor's Kiss is very powerful. The Dementor will tear your soul from your body and eat away at it until you're nothing but a shell. I don't know why it targeted you, but it almost succeeded in sucking away yours. I saved you just in time…"

He shivered and buried his face in Sherlock's neck. "I almost lost you."

"You won't lose me, John. Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock whispered. "I'm right here."

"Thank you," the wizard whispered.

"Were we together at that point?"

"What?"

"When you saved me. Were we a couple?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"Three days ago."

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Let me remember. Please."

**End of Chapter 4**

**AN: So Sherlock knows! And we have a small account of a few of the times Sherlock has made his discoveries. We still don't know why the Dementor attacked (and believe me that will be explained later), nor where John goes when he disappears. We don't even know if he was in Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw. I'll let you figure it out!**

**Oh, and this chapter is a little bit longer than last. Yay!**

**I am currently unbeta'd so any mistakes are my own and correct me if you find anything. Questions and concerns may be sorted in a PM or a review. Subscribing is optional but if you like the story enough to want to read the updates, it may be convenient. Stay classy!**


	5. Locomotor

**AN: I'm so happy that my story has gotten such wonderful feedback! Unfortunately, after this small bit is finished, I will not be able to continue writing. As it stands, much of what I had planned for it will remain unwritten. In this case, I have several not-so spoilers for you all so you know what happens in the story from this chapter on.**

**-spoilers below-**

**Sherlock is actually a veela (seductive magical creature), but has no recollection of it due to John's first _Obliviate_ spell. His memory returns, and they battle Lord Voldemort's rotting corpse as he returns from the dead. They enlist the help of Mrs. Hudson, who is secretly a witch, Greg Lestrade, who is a wizard, and Mycroft Holmes, who was born a vampire. Basically, everyone they've ever interacted with has magical shit in their blood.**

**Harry Potter joins them in their fight along with his ridiculously-named youngest son. My OC, Raven Century Riddle, is Voldy's kick-ass daughter who falls in love with Sherlock, which starts a love triangle.**

**John comes to the startling realization that this is my f-cked up April Fools prank and I would never do that to you guys. Don't kill me! Here's a small fluffy scene to tide y'all over until I finish the next chapter.**

* * *

><p>Sherlock made a point of showing John how much he loved him the following week. John often found notes on the fridge ('experiment in juice container, don't touch'), or angelic notes drifting softly from Sherlock's violin on Sleepless Nights, or even a new carton of milk sitting pleasantly on the counter when he got home, detective out like a light on the sofa. And while these acts of love and kindness was very much welcome, John could see the obvious point Sherlock was trying to make.<p>

This is why John had dragged Sherlock out of bed early this morning and drove him through a sleepy London to the Shard, where he Apparated them onto the roof.

Sherlock felt like screaming as they teleported themselves up. The pressure was crushing, and he felt like if he let go of John he would be ripped apart where he was. Once they were safely on top of the building, he did let out a yell of surprise. John waited patiently for him to finish, a small smile tugging at his lips.

"What was that?" Sherlock demanded. "John, what did you do? What?"

"It's just a spell," the wizard shrugged. "Easy and almost-safe travelling to anywhere you need to go. And we're here now."

Sherlock gave him a questioning glance. John held out his hand, palm down, and commanded, "Up!"

A broomstick that lay on the ground sprung to life and flew into John's hand. He caught it effortlessly and grinned.

"It's time for your first flying lesson."

* * *

><p>"John, I'm not- I'm not sure about- about this!" Sherlock shouted, wobbling a little. John had barely kicked them up and they were now ten feet from the roof of the building. Sherlock's arms wound around his torso from behind and crushed him in a tight embrace. John kept his hands on the broomstick.<p>

"Relax, Sherlock. I won't let you fall," John told him patiently. He eased the broom forward, causing the detective to panic and cling to him tighter. John believed that if the poor man wasn't too afraid of falling, his legs would be around him, too. He felt Sherlock bury his face in John's shoulder.

John slowly eased the broom forward again, this time with only a small whimper of fear as protest. He continued to fly forward and came to a stop. "Sherlock."

"No."

"Sherlock."

"No."

"Sherlock, will you just look up for a moment? You don't have to look down," John told him gently.

Sherlock slowly lifted his head and looked forward. John smiled as he heard a small intake of breath from behind.

An orange haze settled on the edge of the horizon, mixed with purples and blues. The sun was slowly poking its way out of the fog that surrounded England. It was the most beautiful sunrise Sherlock had ever seen. It looked like Heaven.

"It's beautiful," he found himself saying. John chuckled a little.

"Yeah. Not as pretty as the ones I saw at school, though. There was more magic to it, I suppose," he said.

Sherlock nodded and then, out of curiosity, looked down.

The resulting episode of panic and wobbling took ten minutes to settle, and another ten for John to descend peacefully to the ground.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I'm sorry this isn't a very long chapter, but the chapter coming up is quite a long one and is taking a long time to write. I figured you all deserved a fluffy little bit to tide you over until I'm finished. Stay classy!<strong>


	6. Lumos

**AN: I promised to update soon and I FAILED. I am so sorry! School sort of happened, I graduated, and I couldn't focus on my writing. I'm back, however, and ready to make an attempt to update again. This chapter isn't as long as I had promised, another failure on my part, but I am trying my best to work with what I've got.**

* * *

><p><em>7:00 a.m.<em>

_Location unknown_

John twirled his wand tip against the table, the handle in between his fingers. He was slouched in his seat, feeling quite comfortable where he was, and occasionally slipped a jelly bean in his mouth. On some of these same occasions, he would make a pinched, disgusted face.

"You look worse for wear," he commented lightly toward his host. The man sitting facing him gave him a false smile and continued to write on the parchment before him. "Had a bad night's sleep, then? Or were you busy?"

John's smile was lewd, teasing. His host only sighed and finished his letter. John watched as it was then sealed and taken to the skies by a little beige-coloured owl.

"So, you have allowed Sherlock to remember this time?" the man asked. John nodded.

"He asked, specifically. He's been good not to mistreat my abilities, or me. Now tell me, how is our Prime Minister today? Still consulting the Malfoys?" John asked, leaning in with rapt interest.

"That is no concern of yours and you know that," the man before him said simply. He reached for the bowl on his desk once John was finished picking through it and placed a marshmallow-flavoured bean in his mouth. He gave John a small, triumphant grin.

"So what kept you up, then?" John asked, a small note of concern in his eyes.

"Lestrade had visited. He just burst through the door blathering on about silver foxes. Eventually, his conversation dwindled into an explanation about his case, and a particularly cooperative witness," the man said, making a small face. John laughed and leaned back in his seat.

"You know he wouldn't even spare her a second glance," he told the man.

Mycroft popped another green bean in his mouth, closing his eyes in disgust. Grass. When he looked up again, his only response was: "Same time next week, John."

The blond only grinned, and disappeared with a _crack_.

* * *

><p><em>7:03<em>

_221B Baker Street_

Sherlock started at the sound of John Apparating into the flat. He let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding and gave his partner a scornful look. John returned it with a shrug.

"Where do you go, when you do that?" Sherlock wondered, peering into his microscope.

"I visit an old school chum. Well, when I say chum, I really mean a brother of a friend," John answered, leaning into the table. "What are you doing?"

"Experiment," was the ever-so-helpful reply. John rolled his eyes and turned to begin the ritual of making tea. And, as expected, Sherlock's voice said from behind him: "Black tea, two sugars."

"It wouldn't hurt you to stand up and make yourself your own cuppa," John murmured, mostly to himself as he set the water to boil.

"You're already standing, I don't see the need to waste precious time if you're conveniently available."

"Ass."

Sherlock was silent until John slid his cup across the table toward him. The wizard saw him lift his hand toward the drink and pulled away, only to have his hand grasped firmly in the detective's. He looked up at him, question in his eyes.

"Am I taking you for granted, John?" Sherlock asked, rubbing his wrist with his thumb. "Do you think that maybe I'm taking advantage of you too much?"

He was afraid that John would Obliviate him, John's mind supplied helpfully. The shorter man paused, before shaking his head. "No. You're not taking me for granted any more than you have before you found out I can shoot sparks from a stick. You're fine, Sherlock."

He walked around the table and pulled him in for a kiss. He felt arms wrap around his middle and smiled. "You're an incredible ass sometimes, but I wouldn't have stayed if I didn't love you for it."

"John, you would tell me, wouldn't you?" Sherlock asked. "If you thought I was using you? You would tell me you were going to erase my memories?"

John felt at a loss for words, and he lowered his gaze to Sherlock's chest. Suddenly, the loose maroon thread that was a shade too light for the man's shirt was very interesting as he spoke.

"No, I wouldn't, Sherlock. I'm selfish enough to let you think you still love me when you forget who I am," John said quietly.

"I would still love you even if you did make me forget," Sherlock told him. "Because I know firsthand how awful it feels to feel used. And I envy your ability to stop me from continuing."

"I'm sorry," John said.

"Don't be."

Sherlock pressed a kiss to John's forehead, and that was the end of their conversation.

* * *

><p><em>12:03 a.m.<em>

John sat up in bed, looking down at Sherlock's sleeping form beside him. The other man barely stirred- instead, he murmured something obscure and stole John's half of the blankets. John only smiled fondly.

That smile melted away into melancholy. He pulled out his wand.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Aaaaaaand sorry, guys, I decided to leave it wide open. I'm going to work on the next chapter this weekend, and hopefully I'll have something presentable next week. Now you know who John's been Apparating to meet every so often. Yes, Mycroft is a wizard. Yes, I have a reason for that. No, he is not a Squib. Yes, his Patronus is a fox. I think y'all know why.<strong>

**For all of you who have read this from the very beginning and waited for this update… I AM SO SORRY, YOU HAVE NO IDEA!**

**I'll catch you all next week!**


	7. Protego Totalum

**AN: Reading your responses to the last chapter was an interesting experience.**

* * *

><p>Sherlock woke up in the middle of the night to John's voice, and a dim light from down the hall. He sat up quietly, rubbing his eyes. His feet shuffled along the floor as he moved into the kitchen, where John was sweeping the stick- his wand- along the walls. John looked as if he were concentrating on his task completely, but Sherlock knew for a fact that the other man was aware he was awake. Sherlock took a seat, quietly watching him work.<p>

It seemed like a second later when Sherlock felt a hand on his arm. He jerked up, fighting his attacker. John caught his arm with a soft expression in his eyes. Sherlock finally took note of his surroundings.

Light filtered through the window, casting John's face in gold. The wizard's hair was in disarray and the space beneath his eyes looked dark and sleepless. Sherlock felt the tingle of warmth on his cheek where he'd been resting it on his arm, on the table. It was morning, and Sherlock had fallen asleep as John had nearly finished the living room.

"Back to bed, Sherlock," John told him quietly. Sherlock let him pull him from his chair and lead him back to their bedroom. The both of them seemed to collapse into the mattress. Sherlock cracked an eye open to look at his partner.

"Jawn," he drawled, his voice muffled by his pillow. John's eyes did not open, but an eyebrow raised, followed by a "Mmrph?"

"What were you doing last night?"

"Mmph. Persheshin speh."

Sherlock remained silent, waiting, until John groaned and lifted his head. "Protection spell."

"Why? I didn't think we'd need one," Sherlock yawned. John didn't answer. "Good night, John."

* * *

><p>Three hours later, Sherlock's sleep was interrupted yet again by his phone. John groaned and threw a pillow in its direction, burying himself in the stolen blankets. Sherlock removed the pillow off his face and lifted his hand to grab the device.<p>

'1 missed call: Lestrade'

"We have a case," Sherlock murmured.

"Fantastic," came the muffled response. Sherlock's phone moaned. "Change that fucking ringtone."

"Locked room. Man's still alive, but he's like a living corpse," Sherlock read the text. This caught John's interest, as a blond head poked out of the cocoon. "He's catatonic. Unresponsive. It's as though his very soul had died."

John sat up, suddenly very much awake. "Take the case. I think I know what's going on."

Sherlock was full of questions as John rushed to get ready to leave. The detective wasn't slow in his routine, either. But there was a fire about John, as though the case related to him in some way.

The sleuth decided that, considering the unusual circumstances, that may have been true.

* * *

><p>"Lestrade, where is the victim?" Sherlock demanded the minute he was allowed behind the yellow tape. Greg sighed and pointed to the room down the hall.<p>

"His wife reported that he was murdered, but once we got here, it was painstakingly obvious he was still alive," the DI informed them, leading them to the open door. John paused at the doorway as the other two continued to walk in. "However, he isn't responding to any stimuli. Well, I mean, when Anderson pushed a finger into a pressure point, he jumped in physical pain, but he won't speak. He won't look around. He doesn't even look like he acknowledges he's got police in his bedroom."

John approached the bed. Sherlock looked up at him questioningly. The doctor examined his mouth and eyes, before straightening. "Sherlock, you were awake last night; what do you think the temperature was like?"

"It was unusually warm. Maybe about twenty-two?" Sherlock's eyebrows scrunched together.

"Lestrade, did the wife ever comment on the temperature?"

"Now that you mention it, she said that she got very cold in the middle of the night and moved to the sofa, where it was warmer. She said her husband was still asleep."

John pursed his lips and stood, deep in thought. Finally, he looked around the room, drew his wand, and aimed it at the door. It closed shut.

"_Muffliato_," John commanded. It didn't look as though anything happened. Sherlock's eyes widened. John wasn't supposed to use magic in front of Muggles. He turned to look at Lestrade, who…

...didn't look at all shocked or surprised.

"You think it has something to do with magic?" Greg asked. John nodded.

"I'm sure of it. This looks like a bad run-in with a Dementor, actually," he said.

"Wait, hang on, Gavin, you know about magic?" Sherlock asked, bewildered.

"A Dementor? I heard of 'em. Never saw one," the DI shook his head.

"You're a Muggle. Obviously you can't see magical creatures."

"You're a Muggle and you know about magic?"

"Yes!" both John and Lestrade cried, interrupting their own conversation. Sherlock went silent.

"And before you ask, I have a reason," Greg told him. John made a warning noise, shaking his head. "What? He still doesn't know?"

John shook his head again. The DI straightened, a peculiar expression on his face.

"Oh, so he allows him to remember you, but God forbid Sherlock knows his dirty little secret," he scoffed.

"What secret? John, who is he talking about?" Sherlock demanded. John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Okay, Sherlock, there is a lot that has been going on right under your nose for a very long time. Almost your whole life," Greg told him, breaking the ice. "In fact, it was happening in your very household."

"John?"

"This may be hard to believe," the wizard sighed. "Sherlock, your brother is a wizard. He attended Hogwarts like I have. You don't know about this because your parents were afraid of him."

Sherlock scoffed, giving John a smile. John frowned at him, and the smile disappeared.

"When Mycroft got his letter, your parents thought it was a joke," Greg continued. "They forced him to ignore it. Then more arrived, followed by one of the professors of the school. She explained everything to them, all the way up to Mycroft's abilities. Suddenly, certain events had explanations. Mycroft was a wizard."

"Your parents didn't want you to grow up encouraging Mycroft's magic," John picked up. "In fact, they went so far as to confiscate his wand every year during the Summer. They lied to you. Told you he was sent away to a boy's school, far away. They let you believe that it was his choice. And when you were older, they told you that Mycroft refused to let you attend his school, causing you to hate him and treat him like shite ever since."

Sherlock looked down at his shoes, thinking. When he lifted his head, his eyes gave away the hurt and betrayal he felt.

"You knew about this?" he asked. John sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "How is it that my flatmate- my best friend- finds out that my brother is a wizard before I did? Or Lestrade, you… You knew about this for so long, you knew about John- how long have you known about John?"

"Almost as long as I've known him," Greg answered sheepishly. "After John and Mycroft met, My sort of… spilled the beans. He forced me to pretend I didn't know until you knew."

"But why would he tell you, if he can't even trust his own brother?"

"Because he thinks you hate the ground he stands on," John answered. "He is afraid of how you would react."

Sherlock went silent, and John fidgeted with his wand. Finally, he sighed sadly and lifted it.

"I'm sorry. _Obliviate_."

Sherlock fell to the floor.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I know. I'm evil. Don't kill me yet, let me redeem myself!<strong>

**Thanks for the great reception, guys. I love you all. If I could kiss your precious cheeks, I would. To "Old Ping Hai", I always look forward to your reviews each chapter, and I'm so happy last chapter wasn't an exception. To "Protagonist Of Life", you're probably going to kill me now. And to "Nataly Skypot", all you ever say in your reviews is "muy bueno" and to all of that, no matter if I say it or not, my response is "¡MUCHAS GRACIAS!"**

**I found out that this fic has been recommended by a Johnlock fanfic Tumblr. The link to the fic goes to my AO3 account, which I haven't updated since… chapter three. Oops. I'm still really happy I was good enough for a rec. Thanks, guys!**


	8. Tarantallegra

**AN: At least you guys haven't killed me yet.**

* * *

><p>Greg caught the detective before he could completely hit the ground. John put his wand back in his coat pocket and knelt beside the two of them, checking on Sherlock's head.<p>

"What the hell was that for?" Greg demanded. "He did nothing wrong to you!"

"I didn't erase all his memories," John explained. "Just the past five minutes' conversation about Mycroft. He'll come to in a second- ah, here he is now."

Sherlock groaned. His eyelids fluttered. John brushed a curl from his face and plastered on his most sincere look of worry. As Sherlock came to, Greg sighed and followed his friend's lead.

"John? Why'm I on the floor?" Sherlock mumbled, blinking slowly. He looked blearily at his companions. "What happened? Attack?"

"You fainted," John explained. "I think it's the heat. You're always wearing that coat of yours and that scarf to look all dramatic…"

Sherlock closed his eyes as John placed a palm on his forehead. The doctor's hands felt cold against his skin. He could hear Lestrade fussing over him as well, though it was more along the lines of asking "if he was okay" and "if he was well enough to finish the investigation". Sherlock brushed him off to pay more attention to his partner.

"-be fine, it's just the heat. If we can get his coat and scarf off him, that would be marvelous," John was telling the DI. He and Greg helped Sherlock off the floor and John started to loosen the scarf from his neck.

"I wonder what Mr. Helms would say to a consulting detective fainting in his room," Greg mumbled. Sherlock blinked. Of course, the poor bloke was still lying in bed, a vacant look on his face. At least someone had the decency to close his eyes. Sherlock approached the victim, looking for clues he would never find. John took this as an opportunity to send a text Mycroft's way.

..

**You:**

'Dementor attack. Sam Helms, age 33.'

_Sent: 11:20 AM_

..

**MH:**

'Clear SH away from scene. Ministry will arrive soon.'

_Received: 11:21 AM_

..

"This doesn't make any sense," Sherlock mumbled. He glanced around the room, walked around the bed, inspected the wife's vanity table, and even went so far as to grab John by his shoulders and move him two feet away from his previous location to look at the bookshelf. This placed the wizard closer to Greg, and John showed him Mycroft's response. Greg stood a little straighter and nodded.

"Erm, Sherlock, perhaps you'll want to interview his wife. Perhaps she's got a few details picked out of her story. We can't tell," Greg said aloud. Sherlock went stiff and whirled around.

"Yes! The wife. She might be hiding something. Brilliant! Where is she?"

"Scotland Yard. We took her into custody when she made up her strange story," Greg told him. He opened the door. Sherlock frowned, momentarily confused.

_When had the door closed?_

John followed the two detectives out of the house, looking up in time to see a small spark of green coming from the fireplace by the window. He turned away again and entered the cab Sherlock had already hailed.

* * *

><p><em>4:10 PM<em>

_The Diogenes Club_

"You need to tell him," was John's greeting the moment the doors were closed. Mycroft's brow rose.

"Are we referring to telling my brother that I am a wizard and have been lying to him most of his life?"

"I am, yeah. Because to be completely honest, it's making my life twice as hard when it shouldn't," John growled. "He found out today, with the victim. I erased his memory. The only reason he found out was because your boyfriend didn't look at all surprised to see me using magic."

"I have already apologized for telling Gregory without your permission."

"This isn't about that!"

Mycroft fell silent to that. John wiped a hand down his face and sighed.

"Mycroft, the point is, the longer I leave Sherlock with the knowledge I'm a wizard, the more often we will be walking over eggshells around him," John said. "I can't keep Obliviating him, Mycroft. Eventually, I will leave you to deal with the mess your lies have made."

"Am I to assume that 'eventually' will happen sometime after you've found a use for the ring in your pocket?" Mycroft asked. For once, there was no coldness in his deduction. His stare was genuine concern and interest as his eyes met with John's.

"Mycroft, tell your brother. Everything. He needs to know about you. Why he never knew. You didn't see him today. He looked so alone and betrayed, and I never want to see that look on his face again."

Mycroft glanced down at the carpet.

"I will sleep on it, John."

"No, that's not g-"

"If you tell me that it's 'not good enough', I will jinx your tongue to the back of your throat and send you home," Mycroft glanced back up at John with irritation written all over his face. "I have spent all my years since I was eleven hiding a major part of who I am from Sherlock. By the time Sherlock and I were no longer influenced by my parents, Sherlock was far too old to tell without losing his trust entirely. You tell me that he looked betrayed. That is a look I would rather die than see pointed towards me."

John frowned and turned away. "I don't understand you, Mycroft, but I trust that you will do what is best for your little brother."

With a loud crack, the doctor was gone. Mycroft leaned back in his seat and reached for his tumbler of scotch.

* * *

><p><em>Later that night<em>

_221B Baker St._

"John, may I see your Patronus?" Sherlock asked, as they were in the middle of a rather heated snog. John groaned and pulled away.

"Of all times you ask me to show you magic, you choose right now?"

Sherlock only gave him a pleading look. John sighed and got up from underneath his partner. The detective beamed brightly as his blogger reluctantly got off the couch and approached the mantle, where his wand lay inconspicuously behind Billy.

After double-checking the windows to ensure they were efficiently covered, and the locks on the doors to prevent an impromptu visit, John lifted his wand high in the air and conjured his happiest thoughts.

_"Care to see some more?" Sherlock had asked, a knowing look in those posh, arrogant, _beautiful_ eyes._

_"Oh, God, yes."_

John smiled and murmured the spell.

Bees started to siphon out the tip and flew about the small room. Sherlock let out a breathless laugh, staring at the little creatures made of light. He reached out towards one that had flown in his direction. It flew closer and landed on his finger. He pulled it close to inspect it.

"It's warm," he murmured. "And it doesn't tickle."

"They're made of magic," John shrugged. Sherlock ignored him in favor of inspecting another bee that landed on his arm. And on his leg. And his cheek. John started to laugh, and Sherlock realized that most of them were starting to land on him.

"I think they like me," Sherlock said.

"A Patronus is a symbol of one's soul," John informed him. "So they're telling you that I love you."

"I don't need a Patronus to tell me that," Sherlock looked up at him and smiled. He stood up pulled John close to him. The bees vanished as their lips met for a sweet, lingering kiss.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Thank you to everyone who reviewed and fueled me along during this rough journey so far. I'll see you next chapter!<strong>


	9. Confundus

**MH:**

'Another victim has turned up. Susan Hills, age 28.'

_Received: 12:30 PM_

'Do you see the pattern in the victims?'

_Reveived: 12:35 PM_

..

**You:**

'Yes. I see it.'

_Sent: 12:36 PM_

'You need to talk to Sherlock.'

_Sent: 12:39 PM_

..

**MH:**

'And say what, exactly?'

_Sent: 12:48 PM_

* * *

><p><em>2:00 PM<em>

_221B_

"I can't believe you lied to me. Your own little brother! For years, even!"

"I'm sorry, I really am. I never meant for it to be like this, it just happened."

"What, so you thought that now, when I'm at my happiest, you'll just spring the surprise?"

"No, that's not what I thought!"

"Go stuff it," the client growled. "I want a divorce, and I never want to talk to either of you again."

"Sean, the baby-"

"How do I even know if it's mine? You slept with my sister, Belle. And Georgie, why? Of all people, it had to be _my wife_?"

Sherlock watched the conversation with little interest. The case was already solved, he was bored, and _God, did they have to argue in his living room?_ John could almost feel his agitation rolling off him in waves. The wizard took his hand and squeezed. They just had to wait a little bit longer, and hopefully nobody would start throwing things. John looked a little worriedly at the clock on the mantle.

"Sean, please, the only person I ever really loved was you, you have to believe me," Belle Hall begged her husband. One hand touched his shoulder beseechingly, the other cradled her round belly. "Georgia and I were only ever physical, and there was nobody else but the two of you."

"You'll find that she's not lying and the baby is yours, Mr. Hall," Sherlock interrupted. His remark cut through the atmosphere like a knife. The client, his sister, and his wife paused to look at the detective with shocked expressions. "A simple DNA test will disprove any suspicions you may have. Now, if that is all, please have this discussion anywhere but in my home."

John was still shaking his head as the front door closed behind a sobbing wife. Sherlock returned with a bored pout on his lips. The wizard looked up at him, pursing his lips. "Was that necessary?"

"Absolutely. If I had waited any longer, Mrs. Hall would have had her baby on Mrs. Hudson's lovely floor," Sherlock answered. He sat in his seat and tapped his fingertips together in his iconic thinking pose. "Now we wait for another case."

John sighed and wandered into the kitchen. Some whiskey sounded nice. There was still wine left over from a previous post-case celebration. He would even settle for beer. Sherlock hummed, tapping his foot. "Stop waiting for the mountain to come."

"Hmm?" Sherlock wasn't even listening enough to take the metaphor seriously.

John poured himself a glass of wine and sipped. Already he could feel the glorious effects of alcohol on his mind. Suddenly, Sherlock wasn't being as much of a berk, though he hadn't done anything different since sitting down. He sighed and set down his glass. "Sherlock, it's still early in the day. Someone will come eventually."

"They have to. They must. I can't let my brain rot from boredom," Sherlock replied.

"Does that mean I'm suddenly incapable of providing you sufficient entertainment?" John asked, walking back into the sitting room. He knelt by the arm of Sherlock's chair and gave him a kiss. Sherlock kissed him back, though it seemed as though he was still distracted. John groaned and stood up.

"Sorry," Sherlock suddenly blurted, looking up at him. John paused, turning to his partner. "Sorry, I just… I was lost in my thoughts. You know how it is."

The detective stood and pulled his blogger close. John smiled and pulled his face closer. It was at that very moment that he noticed movement in the window across from 221B. He glanced over.

A shadowed figure stood, watching them. A hand lifted, reaching out the open window, holding a wand. John saw a flash of red, and threw Sherlock to the floor. The floor shook beneath them as the wall came flying inward. John could hear things falling from the shelves and mantle, the desk hitting the wall, and Mrs. Hudson's shrieks from downstairs. He prayed that she was okay.

Sherlock was coughing and groaning in pain. He lifted his head, only to let it drop back on the ground weakly. John pulled himself off of the detective and looked around. There was another flash of red, and he threw himself back on top of Sherlock as more glass and drywall covered them. People were screaming in the streets as dust enshrouded them. Sherlock coughed again. John shuddered and lifted his head. He found his wand on the ground, guarded by a jawless Billy. He grabbed it and held it up. "_Accio_!"

The clock from the mantle lifted itself from the rubble and flew toward them. John caught it held on tight. "Sherlock, take the clock!"

Sherlock, in no state to argue or question, did as he was told weakly. The ground disappeared from beneath them.

If Sherlock could find his voice, he would have screamed. The feeling he was experiencing was like Apparating, but so unlike it, as well. He could feel his body flying through the air. They were spinning. John had a good grip on Sherlock's arm, gritting his teeth. Sherlock noticed that his forehead was bleeding.

Then they let go. John let go first, still holding Sherlock's wrist. His weight suddenly pulled Sherlock from flight, forcing him to let go of the clock. He let out a small yell as suddenly the lightweight feeling in his stomach dropped and they fell to the floor.

"Oi!" a surprised yell, which didn't come from either of them, greeted them. It sounded like Lestrade.

John groaned and lifted his head. Two pairs of eyes stared down at him from Mycroft's sofa. It appeared they had interrupted something. Mycroft was the first to remove himself from the DI and the sofa and help John up. John stumbled slightly. The elder Holmes ignored him to tend to his brother.

"What happened? God, you look terrible," Greg asked, standing. He held John steady and inspected the cut on his forehead.

"We were attacked at Baker Street," John mumbled. He heard Sherlock let out a moan of pain and turned his head. Mycroft already had his wand out- oak, with a phoenix feather core- and was murmuring different spells. John winced when he heard the sound of the detective's ribs realigning and healing within the span of ten seconds. Sherlock howled in pain.

"He should be fine," Mycroft told John, watching his brother's face. Sherlock's eyes were closed.

"-croft..?" Sherlock mumbled, coughing again. "My..?"

"I'm here, Sherlock," Mycroft told him. "Don't get up. Some of your ribs still need to heal."

"Where are we?"

"You appeared in our home, mate," Greg explained.

"Yes. I believe John had set up an emergency Portkey to travel here in case something were to happen," Mycroft added. "Which may have just saved your life."

"John," Sherlock called out.

"I'm here," John said.

"John, wipe their mem'ries," Sherlock coughed. Mycroft held his head up. "They saw you. Wipe-"

He broke off into another fit, groaning in pain. Mycroft pressed his wand to Sherlock's lips and murmured an incantation. A cloud of dust flew from his mouth and into the trash. Sherlock gulped down oxygen greedily. He opened his eyes to his brother. "My?"

Mycroft sighed, closing his eyes. "Yes, Sherlock. I have a lot to explain."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I have nothing to say in relation to this chapter except... I DIDN'T USE ANY REAL SCENE TRANSITIONS AND DIDN'T DIE!<strong>


	10. Diffindo

It will pass, John thought the next morning. Sherlock was pointedly reading the paper across the table, never looking up or even acknowledging his presence. John took a bite of his oatmeal and grimaced. It wasn't that the food tasted awful, but the fact was that it had gone cold in the amount of time John had attempted to speak to his boyfriend. He set the spoon down and wiped his mouth with a napkin, eyes on the man in front of him.

"Food's gone cold," he said. Sherlock didn't even blink, eyes on the article.

"You know, I have never seen you that interested in the news. Not even when there's a grisly murder on the front page."

"Wizard newspapers are better. The pictures move."

"I think the milk's gone funny, if you added any to your tea."

"Ah, you have."

"This one-sided conversation I'm having with you is so fascinating," John eventually pursed his lips and stood up, setting his napkin on the table. "It's really so mature. No thoughts? Sherlock? Any at all? You can at least tell me I'm a complete and utter cock for lying to you, because I certainly feel that way. And you know what? I'm sorry! I lied to you about everything. When we first met, I kept this part of me a secret. You eventually found out, but I've kept this a secret for so long now. And so has Mycroft, for different reasons. It wasn't my place to tell you. It was his."

Sherlock turned the page, not once even acknowledging John. The wizard threw his hands up and walked out the door.

This scene repeated itself for a few days longer. By the fourth morning, John had had enough. He opened the door to Sherlock's room and shut it behind him quickly so that the detective inside wouldn't escape.

"I've had enough of this, Sherlock. I know that I should've told you, okay? I'm sorry!" he told him. Sherlock pretended to ignore him, rising from his bed to dress himself. "Sherlock, are you even listening to me?"

Sherlock started humming as he buttoned his shirt. It was one of his compositions, John's mind supplied unhelpfully. For some reason, this only made John angrier. "Sherlock, I know you're angry with me about Mycroft, okay? But I refuse now to apologize any further about it! This was Mycroft's problem from the very beginning and it wasn't my place to tell you. Stop blaming me for this!" Sherlock kept his back turned. John noticed that he was tense, and pressed on further. "I am not Mycroft. If you have a problem about his secrets, take it up with him!"

"This isn't about Mycroft!" Sherlock exclaimed, whipping around suddenly. John took a step back, startled. Sherlock advanced on him, his gaze piercing. John felt naked, a feeling he hadn't felt with Sherlock in a long time. Sherlock's face was inches from his when he spoke next.

"Put your hand in your left coat pocket and pull out the largest object inside." John's blood ran cold. Slowly, he did as he was told, removing a small velvet cube. Sherlock eyed it before staring into John's eyes again.

"It's a ring, isn't it? I know for a fact that this box wasn't among your things when you first moved in. You've only recently been stuffing your hands in your pockets, so I would say you've been carrying that box since last Christmas, when you went to visit Harry. It's a rather old box. It's not very well-cared for, either. It had to have been put away among old things for some time. There's a thick patch of dust near the rim of your pocket so obviously you had to dig it up from a cellar of some sorts, and the dust rubbed onto the interior of your pocket. The velvet's worn on the surface and the gold is dull. It's only polished on the clasp, meaning you've been thumbing it anxiously. The style of it tells me that what it contains is a very expensive, valuable piece of jewelry. If Harry hadn't pawned it off like the rest of your parents' jewelry, it must hold sentimental value. So it's an engagement ring. Your new habit of polishing the clasp with your thumb tells me you've been waiting for the right time to ask. But how long, John? We've been dating for two years, but we've been close long before that. So, you've considered proposing to me at least a month before Christmas. But why the hesitation?"

"Sherlock-" John closed his eyes as Sherlock interrupted him, so caught up in his deduction.

"Obviously, you've been keeping secrets. It's been eating away at your mind since the idea first occurred to you. How can you marry me if you're keeping the biggest secret of your life from me? You're a wizard. It's a big part of you. But that can't be your biggest secret, can it? Otherwise you would have proposed to me days after I'd found out, at most. Otherwise, you wouldn't have Obliviated me the previous times I'd found out. You've got another secret. Something bigger. You're hiding something from me, and I was so stupid not to realize that until you brought us here, to Mycroft, who turned out to be another bloody secret you've been hiding, but not your biggest one.

"That is why I'm angry, John. You're hiding something important from me. Don't give me that look, I know that it involves me because otherwise you wouldn't have kept it a secret! You're keeping a very big secret from me, John. I won't be treated like an idiot any longer! You weren't going to marry me with this big secret, so I won't marry you. We're done!"

"I know who Moriarty is," John blurted, feeling his chest tightening. His hands were clenched into fists so tight that he could feel the skin breaking beneath his fingernails. Sherlock was instantly silenced, and this time he was the one to take a step back. "I've known for a long time. Before I'd ever met you, in fact. Mycroft and I… We hunted him down shortly after A Study in Pink, when we realized that he was no longer just a threat to wizards but a threat to _you_. He's a wizard, Sherlock, and he's powerful. Terrifying. He's infamous. A legend, even."

Sherlock stared at him, eyes calculating. "Explain."

"Years ago, we were threatened by what I suppose you could call a radical terrorist in the wizarding world. This person believed that Muggles were inferior and sought to enslave them. He believed that all wizards must be pure of blood and killed all those who had even a drop of Muggle's blood in their lineage. He terrorized our world for decades. And then suddenly, he disappeared. We all thought him to be dead. We celebrated. What we didn't know, however, was that he had left something behind before his disappearance. Something precious.

"This terrorist had an heir. He and one of his twisted followers had a baby, and that babe had only been a child when his father disappeared. He grew up under his father's warped ideals, passed on from guardian to guardian among these 'Death Eaters', as they were called, and eventually he grew to be every bit the terrifying man his father was. When his father came out of hiding and was killed, he took over."

"You're saying that…" Sherlock began. His brow furrowed and he wrinkled his nose in thought.

"James Moriarty is the son of Tom Marvolo Riddle. He vanished not too long ago. Mycroft and the rest of the Ministry has been waiting for his return. We didn't want a repeat of what happened with his father. And then who should pique his interest but you?

"Sherlock, I don't know what he wants from you. Yes, it's true that I've been keeping this a secret from you. But that isn't the reason why I haven't proposed yet. You're in danger, Sherlock. I can't let my guard down, not even for our own wedding. I could so much as blink and you'll be slaughtered by Moriarty."

He took a look at the box that was still in his hand and let out a dark chuckle. He placed it in Sherlock's hand. Sherlock looked down at it numbly.

"This ring… I would have offered this to you the moment I knew you were safe. As soon as I would see Moriarty's lifeless corpse, I would get down on one knee and beg you to be mine until death do we part. I guess I don't need it anymore. You're safer like this, anyway. I'm sorry, Sherlock." John took a step back and pulled out his wand. Before Sherlock could say anything, there was a loud crack and John had disappeared.

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><p><strong>AN: I will never stop apologizing for my late updates. I'm so, so sorry!<strong>

**I wasn't going to give this explanation until around the end of the story, but you all deserve to know. I know it's not a long chapter, nor my best work, but it should make up for something.**

**A special shoutout goes to OldPingHai, who's been my conductor of light through my rough days and has never stopped cheering me on (even when I don't deserve it, really).**


	11. Sonorus

**AN: Since last chapter ended on a sad note, I'll try to make this one a little bit happier. Brace yourselves; this may blow up in our faces.**

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><p>Two days passed, and John did not return. Sherlock knew that he should be worried, but he couldn't find it in himself to chase after him. After all, it had been he that had pushed his boyfriend- ex-boyfriend?- away, made assumptions that hurt them both, and broke up with him without a single thought. John was away to heal himself, and Sherlock knew it would be a bad idea to open those wounds so soon.<p>

Living temporarily under Mycroft's roof gave him plenty of distractions. While Mycroft had a team cleaning up the debris- both physical and magical- of 221B, Sherlock was free to roam about the Holmes estate, bothering his older brother and Lestrade whenever the opportunity presented itself. He asked Mycroft about Hogwarts ("Full of dull people, but the classes were rarely a bore," Mycroft had explained, once), about magic, and on occasion, about John.

"I probably only ever ran into John once or twice," Mycroft said, sitting back in his chair. He and his brother were sat in front of the fire, with Greg on the floor and his head on Mycroft's lap. The detective inspector was apparently so content that he'd fallen asleep in his awkward position. Sherlock found it odd that Mycroft didn't even seem to care. "I was a Gryffindor prefect at the time, and John was often getting into trouble with his friends."

"What sort of trouble?" the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched as he fought a smile. John had never talked about school with him. The three years Mycroft actually shared with him at the castle were a Godsend.

"Oh, God, I barely remember," Mycroft sighed. At Sherlock's pout, he sighed again and pressed a hand to his lips. "I remember hearing rumors being passed around the school. One of the groundskeeper's pets had been set loose during Quidditch practice, or Cornish Pixies being released in the Great Hall… One incident I remember he truly was guilty for was turning all of the beetles in the Transfiguration classroom into burping frogs. He and a few of his friends had apparently snuck in before class and completely ruined the lesson for the First Years. I only remember this because his punishment was to sit in a room full of them and change them all back."

Sherlock burst into giggles and stared at the fire. He could have married that wonderful man. "Did you ever get into trouble for something?"

"Sherlock, do you honestly think I would lower myself to such idiotic nonsense? I am a man of pride and respect. I was the image of a proper student." Mycroft looked affronted. He glowered at his brother for all but a moment before he melted into a smirk. "Once."

Sherlock blinked and started to grin. "Oh, God, what did you do?"

"It was my seventh year and I had decided I would do something fun. Something just for myself, with no thoughts toward my books or my grades or graduation," Mycroft looked down at Greg and ran his fingers through his hair. "I spiked the pumpkin juice that was served for breakfast one morning with a potion that would make the drinker sing every sentence they said for twenty-four hours. I had delayed the effects slightly, so the singing didn't start until well into breakfast. It was spectacular, Sherlock, I wish you could have seen it. At first, everyone had been talking. And then, one boy suddenly burst into a song about the mail his aunt had sent him. The rest seemed to grow worse from that point on. Even the headmaster drank it."

Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he laughed so hard with his brother. He noticed Mycroft's saddened smile, as if the other man came to the same conclusion as he had. They haven't truly been brothers for years. Decades. He curled up into a ball in his chair, looking at his brother for the first time in twenty years. Mycroft only returned his gaze for a moment before looking back down at Greg.

"I was recruited to be a part of the Ministry of Magic immediately after graduation," Mycroft said. "So I packed my bags and left home without a second thought. I wanted to be as far away from our parents as possible. They'd taken too much from me… Including your trust."

"You should have told me," Sherlock said quietly. "I wouldn't have understood right away, but if you had explained…"

"I didn't, and I'm sorry," Mycroft said. "I'm so, so sorry."

"I forgive you," Sherlock told him, nodding. Mycroft smiled softly and looked back up to speak to his brother. He stiffened, staring through Sherlock and out the window. Sherlock's small smile faded and he turned his head.

The grass in Mycroft's yard was growing rapidly. Mycroft moved to stand, waking Greg in the process. Sherlock stood, also, watching Mycroft's yard come to life, twisting toward the heavens. They eventually slowed to a stop, intertwined tight around each other and forming walls. An archway formed as an entrance, mocking them silently.

"Mycroft, is that normal?" Sherlock asked.

"Definitely not," Mycroft was already pulling his wand from his sleeve. "Gregory, Sherlock, stay inside…"

"What? No," Greg grabbed him before he could walk away. "Mycroft, if there's anything dangerous going on, I won't let you go alone."

"I appreciate that you care," Mycroft told him, turning to kiss his forehead. "But I cannot protect you. Stay inside." He pulled his arm from Greg's hold and disappeared with a loud crack. Greg ran to the window as he reappeared just outside.

Sherlock joined him as they watched Mycroft try to cut down the walls of grass with magic. All of the spells seemed to bounce off, causing Mycroft to duck out of the way. A spell hit a bird bath, slicing it in two. Greg winced.

"Don't go in there, Mycroft," Sherlock whispered. "Don't-"

"Shit," Greg was already moving as Mycroft gathered himself and ran through the archway. Sherlock turned to him.

"You heard what Mycroft said, he can't protect you," he told him.

"Fuck what Mycroft said, he's not married to me," Greg snapped, throwing on a coat. "I'm a Muggle, but I'm not entirely useless."

Sherlock turned to look back outside as a fog started to form. Under that cover, who knew if Mycroft would ever find his way back? Greg seemed to notice this too, for he seemed to stop in his tracks behind Sherlock. There was a gasping, choking noise.

Sherlock turned. Greg was lifting from the ground, back arched. Fog had spilled into the house from the fireplace, smothering the flame and filling the room. Sherlock stared at his friend as his breath seemed to be taken from him, exiting his mouth in the form of a dense cloud.

He knew what this was. He'd seen it before. He took a step back as the fog seemed to advance toward him.

"No," Sherlock whispered, feeling dread pool in his stomach. The fog continued to advance, driving the detective away from Greg. Sherlock apologized mentally to the older man and ran.

He sprinted down the hall and out the back door, running toward the grass maze his brother had disappeared into. The closer he got to the arch, the more he felt the dread dissipate. He stopped as he was just underneath to catch his breath. He felt normal again. He took a step inside, and the archway closed behind him.

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><p><strong>AN: Kaboom. Oh, well, the story is progressing anyway.<strong>


	12. Imperio

Sherlock stood frozen in the beginning of the maze. The fog was still dense within, a still white river that engulfed his legs below the knee. He wouldn't be able to see the ground at all if he were to look. Slowly, as though a sudden movement would trigger an attack from some unknown entity, he lifted his hands to cup around his mouth.

"Mycroft?" he called out. "Mycroft! I'm coming in!"

He took a step forward. The fog swirled around him with the interruption. Sherlock never thought silence would feel so wrong and eerie. He cupped his mouth again to call for his brother as he reached a fork in his path.

Both paths seemed to wind toward different destinations. Mycroft was still not answering. Sherlock took a deep breath and turned left. The opening to his chosen path closed behind him. He turned to watch it entrap him, before looking at his surroundings again. He approached a wall and slowly reached a hand out to touch the grass. He flinched, expecting some sort of recoil without having even grazed the wall. His fingers pressed against firm stalks.

Sherlock let out a sigh of relief as he grabbed two fistfuls of the grass. As he'd expected, the plant would not move if he tried to push it aside. He would have to walk through the maze anyway. Unless…

He gripped the stalks firmly and hoisted himself up. He let out a soft grunt as his feet were no longer touching the ground, and threw up an arm to grip another fistful. He glanced down. Due to the fog, he couldn't tell where exactly the ground was. If he were to miscalculate and fall, he ran a large risk of spraining an ankle, at least. He glanced back up and reached for another handful of grass stalk.

Eight minutes passed, and Sherlock could feel his arms growing heavy with fatigue. He had to be close to the top of the wall! He glanced up again. The top, or at least what he believed to be the top, still seemed to be meters away. He glanced down. He still couldn't see the ground. He let out a breath and reached up again.

A warbling sound startled him. He was allowed only a minute to freeze and process the noise, before a black- and white bird burst forth from the grass, directly at his face. With a shout, he lost his grip and fell backward. Sherlock shut his eyes tight, bracing himself for a terrible fall.

It was shorter than he'd expected.

He hit the ground not a second later. He groaned and propped himself up on his elbows. The magpie landed on his knee, warbling at him again. If he didn't know any better, he would say it was mocking him. He took his eyes off the bird and glanced back up at the wall.

"That was a very short distance to fall," Sherlock said breathlessly. The magpie only watched him with beady eyes. "I would say… I only made it, what, half a meter off the ground?"

The magpie blinked and spread its wings. Sherlock watched as it flew over his head and above the wall, disappearing over it. He let out another gust of air.

"Sherlock?" called out a voice. John's voice. Sherlock froze, turning his head sharply. He jumped to his feet and looked around him.

"John?" he shouted. "John, where are you? John!"

"What are you doing here?" John shouted.

"John, tell me where you are!" Sherlock commanded. He cupped his ears.

"Sherlock!" The detective decided that John was in fact to the left of him. He took off running.

"John, keep talking to me, please," Sherlock begged, running a hand against the wall to his right. He reached another fork in his path. "John, where are you?"

"Sherlock," John's voice was a murmur now, and to Sherlock's right. He ran in that direction, and the pathway's entrance shut behind him. Sherlock froze, cupping his ears again. He shut his eyes tight and listened.

The air was still. There was no breeze to dance with the grass. Not a breath besides Sherlock's own could be heard. He strained to hear even the magpie in the dead atmosphere. There was nothing. He moved his hands to his mouth.

"John!" he shouted. A rustling startled him. Something moved up ahead of him. Sherlock started to run again.

After much weaving and turning, Sherlock reached a dead end. He touched the wall, panting hard. No, this wasn't right. John had to be somewhere. How could he have missed him? "John!"

"What belongs to you but others use more than you do?"

Sherlock spun on his heels at the voice. A young woman blinked, staring up at him. Her eyes were that of a cat's. As Sherlock stared, he began to realize that much of this woman wasn't right. His first observation was her paws. Next, her wings, and third, a tail. He took a step away from her, and his back pressed against the wall. She took a step forward, waiting. Her eyes looked hungry.

"You… You're not human," was all Sherlock could utter. She got ready to pounce in the same moment that Sherlock finally realized what she had asked. "Wait!"

She relaxed again, looking up at him patiently. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and stared at her.

"What belongs to me? Others use it more? My brain? No, I use it, others just reap the rewards. God, John was better at riddles than I am…" He slid to the ground, eyes still trained on the great beast before him. This thing shouldn't exist. It was impossible. She blinked down at him, still waiting for him to concede. He let out a short breath. "My food. My violin. My... deerstalker. My experiments. My blog! No?"

The sphynx tilted her head, lowering her torso to pounce. Sherlock watched her, his heart battering against his ribcage. This was the end.

"Oh, John, I'm so sorry," he whispered, closing his eyes. "My John…"

His eyes flew open as the sphynx's mouth opened wider than any human jaw ever could. The horrifying display only fueled Sherlock into answering quickly. "A name! My name. We call ourselves by 'me' and 'I', but others use our names. My John. I'm his Sherlock. My name, for the love of God, please be my name."

The sphynx glared at him, and the wall Sherlock had propped himself against disappeared. He fell backward and only propped himself up in time to see the grass close around the mythical creature. He pulled himself up to his feet and placed his hands on his face.

What has he gotten himself into? This wasn't logical! This was all a fantasy! He slapped himself, hoping that he would simply wake up and be in bed in 221B, with John tangled in him under the covers. But reality remained, and he was still standing in a labyrinth made of his brother's once-pristine lawn. He turned away from the wall and began to walk.

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><p><strong>AN: I was going to continue, but I think I'll leave the next part for another chapter. I'll see you all next update!<strong>


	13. Crucio

**AN: You know I love you guys, right?**

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><p>Sherlock's legs were burning. He's been walking for ages. He kept his hand running against the right wall.<p>

"Oh, Sherlock," John's voice murmured from somewhere nearby. Sherlock ignored him.

There were three things Sherlock knew for certain, walking through this blasted maze. First and foremost: John wasn't here. Sherlock had yet to decide if John's voice was a hallucination or some sort of magic to lead him down dangerous paths. If Sherlock heard his boyfriend's voice from the left, he would go to the right. So far, he had yet to run into another fantastical creature that wanted to kill him.

Second: the maze was enchanted. That much was very obvious since its creation, but Sherlock was absolutely convinced of it now. His paths seemed to intersect or circle often. To test this theory, he'd hung his jacket on a particularly short stalk of grass and continued to walk. He passed the article of clothing thrice before he'd decided it was pointless and put it back on. In addition to his ever-repetitive dilemma, he recalled his attempt to scale the wall. He had been climbing steadily upwards for minutes, and yet only managed a miniscule distance.

The third and final observation was that this maze had undoubtedly been made for him. Sherlock didn't understand why; he had no magical abilities, nor would he amount to anything against another creature. He'd gotten lucky with the sphynx. If pitted against a banshee or a vampire, if indeed those things existed, he would surely die. Despite this, Sherlock had a gut feeling that the maze was for him. Why else would the archway close behind him, when it hadn't for Mycroft? Why was he hearing John's voice trying to lead him astray?

"Sherlock," the voice beckoned to him again, developing that familiar teasing tone that John would adopt when he'd try to persuade Sherlock into doing something-often the house chores or coming to bed at a "reasonable" time. Sherlock could feel his eye twitch. It was terrifying that whatever magic lay over this damned labyrinth knew John's tones of voice to coerce him into walking a dangerous path.

John. If there were to be another thing Sherlock would tack onto his list, it would be the absolute likelihood that he would never see his blogger again. He dreaded his fate if-and-when he should reach the center of the labyrinth. He probably wouldn't even make it that far. Chances were, he would run into a werewolf or something and get eaten alive. God, he hoped that wasn't Mycroft's fate.

His brother was another thing Sherlock was concerned about. While he knew that Mycroft had been in the labyrinth a few minutes before Sherlock joined him, he was certain that his brother should have been close enough to hear him the first time. Sherlock could only come to two conclusions: Mycroft was either incapacitated, or magic was restraining him from answering. The younger Holmes shivered and hoped for the latter.

For what seemed like the millionth time, Sherlock found himself approaching an intersection in the road. He stopped, waiting for John's voice to beckon him down the wrong path. For minutes, it was eerily silent. Sherlock remained at the intersection, waiting.

What he didn't expect, however, was to see someone dashing across his path- someone who looked an awful lot like John. He didn't even notice Sherlock as he continued to run. Sherlock only paused for a moment, bewildered and startled.

"John?!" he cried, running down the path after his boyfriend. "John! Wait!"

He turned a sharp corner and slammed right into a grass wall. He turned quickly. John wasn't there. He wasn't there, damn it! Sherlock lifted his hands to yank at his hair and let out a scream.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair! What was he doing here? Why was he here? He lowered his hands and leaned against the wall. It was hopeless. He was either going to die here or go mad.

"Ahem," a feminine voice coughed. His eyes snapped open, and the detective met the gaze of another woman.

This woman wasn't a sphynx. She had flowing, soft white hair and pale skin. Her eyes were a warm brown color. And she was staring at him as though expecting something.

"What..?" Sherlock breathed, confusion settling in his mind. The sphynx, he could understand. But what was a human girl doing here? She tilted her head.

"You are quite handsome," she told him, lifting a hand to stroke his cheek. Sherlock flinched away. She froze and plastered on a smile. "I'm happy that I'm not alone here. I was very scared, and I heard you scream… Won't you stay with me?"

"I'm can't, I have to find the center," Sherlock told her truthfully, though a part of him also wanted to be as far away from her as possible. She pouted and stared at him, a meaningful look in her eyes. Sherlock only frowned and looked around her for a possible alternative path.

"I'm cold and scared," she continued. "I've been walking for an hour straight. Please, will you sit with me and hold me to keep me warm?"

Sherlock noticed that she was inching closer. He found himself with his back flat against the grass wall as she advanced. A few seconds later, and she was flush against him, resting her head on his shoulder. He could feel her breath on his neck.

"You're so warm," she murmured. "Please rest a while… Stay with me…"

"I can't," Sherlock told her again. She huffed and lifted her head to glare at him.

"Stay with me," she commanded.

"I need to continue walking," Sherlock said. She leaned in closer.

"Rest for a minute, please?"

"No," Sherlock refused. She only got closer. Sherlock could feel her breath on his lips.

"Stay with me," she breathed.

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><p>Sherlock couldn't help but feel as though he was closer to the center. The girl was easy to shake off, having grown bored with him after numerous failed attempts at seducing him. Her features shifted slightly before they parted, making her look more birdlike, and she'd stormed off.<p>

Perhaps he would have been rid of her sooner, had he told her he was gay from the beginning. But nevertheless, the labyrinth seemed to determine that he was successful and opened its path for him. Sherlock knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. Unfortunately, his success also meant that he would be hearing John's voice again. He wondered if he would see him running a second time.

"Sherlock," John called out to him. Sherlock sighed and followed the voice. It seemed as though his only option was to let his boyfriend lead him to danger. Any other choice would force him to walk in circles again.

"I don't suppose you could tell me what I should expect next time, could you?" he shouted. John remained silent. "Thought not."

"Sherlock?"

"That's my name," Sherlock mumbled. He shook his head and turned a corner-

-and collided with a running mass of flesh. The assailant fell backwards and was completely engulfed in the fog. Sherlock could still hear them groaning.

"Oh, for God's sake, you're probably the most miserable excuse for a vampire or a werewolf or whatever the hell you're supposed to be," Sherlock snapped at it. "If _I_ can knock you over by complete accident, you're obviously not very strong. Or terrifying."

"Sherlock?" John's voice asked again. This time, he sounded much, much closer. The fog swirled around as the creature started to pick itself up. Sherlock noticed the blond hair, first.

"John?"

John stood up completely, rubbing his shoulder. Sherlock noticed that he must have landed on his bad side, which explained the groaning. Without thinking, he surged forward and yanked John into him for a kiss. John let out a muffled yelp and shoved him back.

Oh, right. Sherlock had been chasing John's voice throughout the labyrinth. For all he knew, this was some other creature that had John's face. It probably didn't even know that Sherlock and John were a couple, the miserable bugger. But this John seemed very real.

Sherlock watched as the not-John stretched his left arm and winced. Not-John sighed and rubbed his shoulder, lifting his gaze to meet Sherlock's. Not-John's eyes were incredibly accurate for a copy.

"What the hell are you doing here, Sherlock?" Not-John asked. It advanced on him, and Sherlock ended up backing into a wall- as he found himself doing often- trying to step away from it. "What are you doing in here?"

"I… Mycroft came in, we were attacked…" Sherlock found himself explaining. Not-John peered at him and lifted a hand to cup his cheek. Sherlock flinched.

"You scratched your cheek…" Not-John murmured. "You shouldn't be in here. How did you even get this far? I've run into a Blast-Ended Skrewt and an Acromantula so far. But I had the benefit of magic. These things could kill you."

Sherlock only understood part of that statement, frowning. Not-John was incredibly accurate. He lifted his hands and placed them on not-John's shoulders, forcing him away. Not-John winced again at the tight grip on his left shoulder. Now that not-John was distanced from him, Sherlock lifted his left hand. Not-John gasped.

"Where did this come from?" Sherlock asked, pointing at the ring on his finger.

"My… It came from the attic of my parents' house. Sherlock-" John looked at the ring and back at Sherlock, and then back at the ring. "I didn't… You didn't have to…"

Sherlock's face softened, and he pulled John back in for another kiss. This time, John kissed him back. When they parted, John cupped his cheek again.

"You left before I could apologize," Sherlock told him. "I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have tried breaking up with you without hearing your side, first. I pushed you away, and I know I don't deserve to keep you-"

"Shut up," John told him. "I left, too. I'm also to blame for this. And I can assure you we _will_ be talking about this later. But right now, I need to get you out of here. I can't Apparate out."

"I followed your voice," Sherlock told him quietly. "If we make any wrong turns, we'll end up in circles. But I followed your voice, and you led me to the monsters, which led me to this path. I didn't expect you to appear- how did you get in? The archway closed behind me."

"There was an archway?" John asked absentmindedly. He looked up at Sherlock. "I Apparated in, accidentally. Thought I'd end up in Mycroft's yard… Don't know how I got here, honestly."

"This _is_ Mycroft's yard," Sherlock explained. "The grass came to life. Mycroft went in to investigate. I followed."

John glanced up at him worriedly. "Then if someone made this in his yard..."

"Someone wants to play a game," Sherlock finished. He started to walk in a random direction, only to be stopped by John.

"Wait, Sherlock, we don't know what's out there. We need a plan. I don't know how you've been lucky so far. What monsters did you run into that you escaped so easily?"

"A sphynx and a girl," Sherlock answered, walking forward again. John stopped him again.

"A girl?"

"Yes, a girl. A very flirtatious girl. How she was a monster, I have no idea."

"Did you… kiss this girl?"

"What? Of course not."

"What did she look like?"

"Blonde, brown eyes, a light and annoying voice-"

"A Veela?"

"A what?"

John lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. "How the hell did you get past a Veela? They're masters of seduction. Men fall prey to their charms."

"I'm a homosexual that's engaged to another man, I think I can resist the charms of a woman," Sherlock lifted his left hand again.

"Oh, like Irene?" John scoffed, glaring at him.

"Irene was interesting, but I wasn't interested in her."

"Right."

"And why do you care? We started dating maybe a month after she left."

"I don't."

"Is this where I sarcastically agree, now?"

Sherlock and John stood, glaring at each other. Finally, John sighed. "Let's just drop this. We can fight when we get out of here. We just need to get out of here in the first place."

Sherlock relaxed slightly and followed John as the shorter man started to walk away.

He felt as though a heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He had John, and if he were to die in this wretched maze, that was all he needed.

* * *

><p>He was breathing hard as he continued to walk. Part of his sleeve was singed. He knew his face was probably red and his hair a mess. He didn't know what happened to his boyfriend or his brother, and he tried not to worry as he walked steadily onward. He would find them, eventually. He turned a corner and found himself trapped in a dead end.<p>

Something growled behind him. Mycroft turned, and in a flash of orange and black, his world went dark.


	14. Ridikkulus

It took one bad run-in with a banshee to make Sherlock one-hundred percent more thankful that (for some reason) John liked him. Ears still ringing, he slowly got to his feet and tried to help the other man up. John looked at him dazedly, ready to fall over.

"Up you get, John, easy does it," Sherlock said, tossing one of John's arms over his shoulder to hold him up. "Come on, she's gone now."

The detective ended up half-dragging the wizard's weight as John remained too dizzy to stand. Sherlock could feel his respect for his boyfriend tripling. Even with his hands pressed tight against his ears, the banshee's terrible scream had made him double over in agony. John, who had banished the foul being with a powerful thrust of his wand, did not have such a luxury and bore the brunt of the attack. As such, he was still partly unconscious and delirious by the time Sherlock recovered from his ordeal. Sherlock wondered if his hearing was all right.

And so here they were: side by side, limping down the grassy path with no direction and little motivation. Sherlock would stop every so often to adjust his hold on John as the wizard slowly gathered his bearings. They hadn't reached another fork, and Sherlock was grateful. He didn't know how much more they could take. He only hoped his brother wasn't lying dead somewhere else in the maze. He adjusted John's weight again and grunted, pulling him along.

Ten minutes later, John uttered his first coherent word: "Sherl'ck." Sherlock let him lean against a wall to gather his bearings. John shut his eyes tight and reopened them, looking around blearily. He still looked like a drunk man as he blinked at Sherlock. Sherlock waited with uncharacteristic patience. He rubbed the older man's cheek.

It was another scream entirely that seemed to awaken them both. It wasn't deadly, as with the banshee's, yet by the way Sherlock's blood turned cold and John gasped, it was equally as terrible. It was the sound of a man being tortured. The two of them met eyes and could read the dread in each others' faces. Sherlock started to follow the voice. John followed, struggling to meet his pace.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock yelled, speedwalking down the path. John stumbled into the wall a little, adding to the distance between them. He could still hear Sherlock shouting for his brother as the terrible screams continued.

Sherlock continued along the path. He watched with disbelief as up ahead, an archway opened. He dashed toward it. He barely registered John's voice calling to him in the distance as he ran to his brother's aid. "Mycroft-"

"Hi."

If Sherlock's blood had gone cold with the sound of Mycroft's screams, it was like ice now. His head whipped to the side and his eyes rested upon the newcomer. Jim Moriarty smiled and shrugged at his bewilderment.

"Jim," Sherlock greeted, turning so that he was facing the man.

"You know, Sherlock, there was something fascinating about you when I first laid eyes on you," Jim said. "All that power in that head of yours, focused so completely on me. I almost didn't want to leave. It made me feel all tingly inside!"

"You're behind all this," Sherlock stated.

"Well, what were you expecting? Your brother doesn't have my taste in yardwork, I'm afraid."

"Where is Mycroft?"

Jim shrugged, flashing his teeth in a grin. "I dunno. Maybe big brother is finally dead. It _has_ been awfully quiet for a minute now-"

Sherlock didn't register the bang. He didn't register the ringing in his ears. For a moment, it was as if Moriarty had frozen in time. His grin remained on his face, but his eyes widened. Sherlock spotted the growing patch of red on Jim's prized Westwood. And then the criminal disappeared.

"Sherlock-" John groaned.

Now, Sherlock could hear the ringing in his ears, only so that he could hear his own scream of horror. His arm was raised, hand holding a gun that wasn't his. The owner of the firearm stood across from him, eyes wide in pain and betrayal. Sherlock stared as the spot of blood drowned the color of John's favorite jumper. John took a step back, away from him, and stumbled. The fog cleared where the body landed, and Sherlock began to run to him.

He tried to run to him.

He couldn't run to him. Instead, he struggled against an invisible barrier. Something held his waist fast from behind, and he was helpless against it. Sherlock shouted for John to get up. The blood pounded in his ears, the sound mixing with his cries. He almost didn't hear the voice.

"-j'st a spell- Sh'lock- 'M here-" He felt the vice around his middle tug and turn him, so that he would face a wall instead of his fiance. He let out a cry, starting to struggle, until he noticed something odd about the body.

It was _moving_. The limbs elongated. Hair darkened. John's face reconstructed itself. It was no longer John.

"What the hell-" Sherlock could hear himself breathe. His own eyes looked up at him in blind accusation. That was his own face, his body lying on the ground. And Sherlock could feel the barrier around his waist tighten.

"J'st a spell... Just a spell," John said, his breath hot against the back of Sherlock's neck. And oh, suddenly Sherlock could register his surroundings again. It was John that held him tight around the waist. John was shielding him away from _that thing_, whatever it was that obviously wasn't Sherlock, dead on the ground. John shuddered. "It's a boggart. It shows us our worst fears. You… you were afraid of Moriarty for a moment, Sherlock. It used him, and then it gave you what you feared most."

"You," Sherlock breathed. "Dead. I killed you."

"You thought you did. _Riddikulus_."

Sherlock watched, morbidly fascinated, as his "corpse" remained the same, but the clothes began to change. The cut of his jacket altered itself and lightened in color. His trousers began to shorten and knit together.

Sherlock nearly choked on air. The fake Sherlock, while still playing dead, was wearing the most gaudy pink outfit Sherlock had ever seen. It coordinated with Jennifer Wilson's, from their first case together. Sherlock could hear John fighting hysteria behind him.

"Go ahead and laugh, John," he muttered, and John lost it. Sherlock cracked a smile, listening to John's cackle. They were in such a mad situation, it helped to laugh.

The corpse seemed to twitch at their laughter. Sherlock watched as it convulsed on the ground, and turned to dust. A wall parted, forming an archway. John's laughter ebbed. Sherlock turned to look at him.

"Let's go," John said, smiling softly. "We have to find Mycroft."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I don't know if any of my original readers (besides Old Ping Hai) are still reading this.<strong>


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